Don’t Call Me Marilyn

I remember watching them all walk away, his hand under my belly. I loved the way he would hold me when I was tucked under his arm. That was why it was so easy to do it, to watch them, at first waddling and then moving upwards. One by one taking flight. I am a sucker for comfort. Once you get used to being carried around it feels unthinkable to walk anywhere. I became spoilt, you see, and to use my wings felt like too much effort.

They left me behind because of the wig. I know it. The stupid little wig I didn’t even know I was wearing. It’s so light, you can barely feel it. And the way he’d placed it so carefully when I was sleeping, none of the hairs flopped into my eyes, nor tickled any part of my sensitive head. I was oblivious to its yolky presence.

Was it my fault that I followed him home one evening, after he’d spent an hour or so holding me just so, and slept in his front garden? Maybe.

After they left I realised this man’s dream was to keep me tucked into his left side, a goose in girl’s hair extensions forever. I told him I would never be his love, not in the way he wanted me to be. In spite of my strong words, which were accompanied by a lot of flapping and honking, he still insisted on calling me Marilyn.

Forest water shadows
Sunlight blinds the last view
V formation flight.